Welcome to Wintersleep
The high expectations of a loyal fanboy
In late 2002, the Canadian Broadcast Corporation launched CBCRadio3.com, “a full-screen online magazine” (Wikipedia) which I can still clearly visualise: high-res photos of musical acts recording live in-studio, accompanied by a mini-essay, and an embedded media player. When I discovered the site, in mid-2003, I was intrigued by a broody and Canadian-sounding band name, Wintersleep, whose debut, self-titled album came out that April. The CBC3 website hosted a video for their song “Orca” where the band performed in silhouette, looking very mysterious, which increased my intrigue. (I can’t find it on YouTube, which means the video is either a figment of my imagination or offline in the CBC archives.)
The hallmarks of Wintersleep’s sound were driving acoustic guitars, hard-hit drums, and singer Paul Murphy’s mumble-growl. The songwriting was dynamic, alternating between tenderness and aggression — like Pearl Jam without anthemic choruses or guitar virtuosity. Instantly appealing to 20-year-old Josh, basically.
Quickly, I became a loyal Wintersleep fan, attending every show they played in Vancouver. I was in a band then, too, so it was exciting to see them initially at the same venues I played, like the 150-capacity Media Club.
Their stature grew with a second album, 2005’s Untitled. “Jaws of Life” was played on rock radio, and the video for “Danse Macabre” was in rotation on MuchMusic, Canada’s MTV.
The best aspect of Wintersleep live was drummer Loel Campbell. My favourite show was in 2005 or ‘06, at downtown Vancouver club Richard’s on Richards, where Campbell did two wildly unpredictable, lengthy drum solos — two solos! — and blew everyone’s brains (twice!) He’s still my favourite Canadian drummer of all-time.
Wintersleep’s popularity spiked with 2007’s Welcome to the Night Sky, which contains their only hit, “Weighty Ghost” — undeniably catchy, but one of their weakest songs, I’d argue. This tune was everywhere in Canada in the late 2000s.
Seeing Wintersleep in small venues, I was awed by the contrast between Murphy’s timid vocal delivery and Campbell’s thundering drums. Seeing them at the 1,000-capacity Commodore Ballroom wasn’t as thrilling. The unique elements of their sound, especially Murphy’s voice, got lost in larger rooms.
Welcome to the Night Sky exploded in Canada, and it’s a great record, so the band must have felt tremendous pressure to follow it up. Perhaps this is the reason they took a left turn and released a less catchy and more prog-y album, New Inheritors, in 2010. To my ears, Murphy sang with an American accent on some of the tracks, which was bizarre. “Weighty Ghost” positioned the band on the cusp of mainstream success and New Inheritors didn’t deliver on that potential. The album disappointed fans and the Canadian music industry alike.
I’ve never not wanted a band or artist I love to succeed. I hope the musicians I admire earn a living and reach as many people as possible. As an act gains more fans, there needs to be a progression, an elevation in their sound and showmanship that attracts a new and bigger audience. In other words, a band needs to up their game when playing big venues and festivals.
I probably saw Wintersleep 7 or 8 times between 2003 and 2011; mostly in Vancouver, also in Berlin in 2010. By the late 2000s, my friends and I had arrived at the same conclusion: Wintersleep wasn’t progressing. Their sound became conventional, even as mainstream success eluded them, and their live shows were consistently lacklustre.
Wintersleep presented like an unconfident, inexperienced indie band, even 5+ years into touring (with the exception of drummer Campbell, who was always captivating). Their musicality improved, and they had an abundance of amazing songs, but their live show didn’t improve. I’m mainly referring to Murphy’s inconsistent vocals and lack of confidence on-stage. I know that’s unfair, but he is the frontman. No one’s expecting an indie rock singer from Halifax, Nova Scotia to run around and own the stage like Freddie Mercury — but there are dozens of examples of singers who drastically improved their singing and stage presence over time to reach and sustain a large following.
Simply put, Wintersleep never stepped it up. As a loyal fan from the start of their career, this made (and still makes) me very sad.
Last month, I was reminded of my early infatuation with the band when I found the blog of their founding bassist, Jud Haynes. Haynes played on the first three Wintersleep albums and then left to become a successful visual artist. He wrote in January about the 20th anniversary of Untitled and it’s a fascinating reflection on their early days. (I paid $150 Canadian for the “ultra limited edition, blood-filled vinyl” that he mentions at the start and end of the post. I’m collecting it next month when visiting Toronto.)
I love reading behind-the-scenes insights about my favourite artists, songs and albums. If you’re already a Wintersleep fan, the post from Haynes is well worth reading. It encouraged me to go back and listen to their first two albums, especially Untitled, and I’m still blown away by their creativity and fearlessness. The Untitled and Welcome to the Night Sky era of the band is their artistic peak, no question.
In writing this piece, I reviewed some of Murphy’s lyrics, and I realised that most of the songs on Untitled don’t contain choruses. No choruses! The aforementioned “Danse Macabre”? No chorus. The opener, and my favourite on the album, “Lipstick”? No chorus!
For musicians in their early twenties to write a rock album with unconventional song structures is wildly ambitious. Clearly, Wintersleep were full of confidence in the early 2000s, and that’s what I admired most about them. So what the hell happened?
Wintersleep have continued to tour and release music; a new album, Wishing Moon, is out on 27 March. Of the three songs released thus far, I quite like “You & I”, although it proves my point and lacks the boldness of their 2000s output.
I wouldn’t be so critical of Wintersleep if I didn’t love the band. Here are my 10 favourite Wintersleep songs.
I’m seeing them in April at a tiny venue in London, for old times’ sake. Maybe, hopefully, I’ll be pleasantly surprised.